Brilliant Brush
by RRP
Summary: Every scar has a story- some more defined than others. Jack ran into the East India Trading Company, but there is always more than just what the surface tells. Rating for singular act of implied graphic violence. RR.


Disclaimer: No. I don't own them. Why?

A/N: Hmm. Yeah. This came from somewhere, I suppose. As to the title; it's inspired by Dashboard Confessional, though the story has nothing to do with the band.

**Brilliant Brush**

_By RRP_

            It was dark, cold, and reeked of fear. So many scars were stains in the rough-grained wood, stories of sleepless nights and sweat-browed prayers. The iron shackles bit mercilessly into his wrists, and the prisoner found a strange peace in their rough chafing.

            The distraction, however painful, was welcome. Every time he thought about what was to come, bile rose in his throat, and he had to fight to keep from vomiting. The stench in the brig was already horrid enough.

            Top deck flew the colors of the East India Trading Company, and the outer bulkhead proclaimed _Cutlass_ in bold, white letters. It was a name that would be forever seared into his mind, as their mark would be seared into his skin.

            It was the ship that had caught Jack Sparrow.

            Valiantly had he gone down, with bravery had he challenged them, courageously he had glared at their captain as the irons were clamped about his arms. Eloquently had he threatened them with tales of the coming fate, when his ship caught up to them.

            He felt none of those things now, shivering in the freezing brig and waiting…waiting…waiting…

            "Pirate!" The rough bark jerked him out of his tense thoughts, and he rose to his feet. With effort, he forced his teeth to stop chattering.

            "Aye, luv?"

            The sailor gave him a vicious look, and swung the door open. "Come along, rat. It's time."

            Unwillingly, did Jack follow the sailor. He forced his feet onward, doing his best to stand steady. Up the stairs, taking them step by dreaded step. Onto the deck…inching on, back stiff as a ramrod.

            None of the sailors watching that day would recall Jack Sparrow being scared—to them, he was the very picture of flamboyant nerve. Not once did his hands shake, as they undid the shackles and let them drop to the deck.

            His fingers didn't quiver as they forced them to the worn block. He kept his head high, chin up, as they read him inked words of condemnation off thin sheets of pale paper.

            The sailors would claim Jack Sparrow to be one of the boldest they had seen yet—others had fought and screamed as being dragged out. He didn't even look like he wanted to run.

            But inside, Jack was a sick mixture of butterflies and stormy seawater. He heard the crackle of fire, and could feel its glow even from where he knelt. His shut his eyes tightly, and kept back the black liquid that flooded his mouth.  

            Jack opened his eyes, peering out at a blurry world, just in time to see the white-hot rod lift into the air. Someone was holding his arm down, the tender skin on his wrist exposed. He suddenly felt so very small, and bare—his thoughts and feelings naked to the entire world.

            There was a intense light, and an inferno racing up his arm into his very being. He heard a high sound, and realized he was screaming. The brilliant brush with justice, the pain and the red, the sound and the flame.

            As suddenly as it had started, it was over. He found himself weak, and sagged limply to the deck. He curled up on the use-sanded wood, and rested his cheek against the blessedly cool surface.

            A sailor was wrapping his wrist, and when finished, Jack jerked it away. He wanted no more of those vermin touching him. Holding it to his chest, he sobbed. The dam broke, and he simply didn't care who was watching.

            Sometime in the midst of the ordeal, they hauled him to his feet and dragged him below deck to the brig. He collapsed there, and didn't crawl onto the cot until the following morning.

            When he woke, he was shaking and couldn't stop. He was cold and hot all at the same time, and the cot was unforgiving. The thin blanket they had granted did nothing at all to ease him.

            As frail as an infant, he lay. He had never felt so vulnerable in his entire life. Jack must have drifted to sleep again, somehow, but he had very little memory of the days following the branding. It was a hazy fog of a nightmare he had no wish to retain.

            The only escape he had was deep, dreamless sleep…

_Some years later…_

            "Had a brush with the East India Trading Company, did we?" The blue-coated officer smiled grimly at him, and Jack gave him a tolerant half-smile in return.

            _No_, he thought with a touch of anger. _We didn't. I did. _


End file.
